


we are such stuff as dreams are made on

by kekinkawaii



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: (James, his blood sings. As if it can’t believe he’s here, next to him, warm and solid weight mere inches to his left.)
Relationships: James Farrow/Oliver Marks
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78





	we are such stuff as dreams are made on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashmctrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmctrash/gifts).



> Special thanks to my friend who let me borrow this book. I didn't start reading it until this morning, when I blasted through the entire thing in, like, two hours, and then spent the rest of the afternoon reading all the fic I could find before proceeding to write my own. Best day ever. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

His body struggles to carry the strain of too many sleepless nights, weary caffeine stripping him down to skin and bones. His hands are inexplicably restless, tracing the faint imprints of veins running down the other’s arm. They hold a tremor like the suspended, fading echoes of a violin string. He is afraid to close his eyes, for fear of the realization that all of this is a fever dream and nothing more. He is afraid to close his eyes, because the next time they open, it may be to an empty bed, a blank cell wall, capitulated back to a cold, harsh reality.

He studies him. James.

(James, his blood sings. As if it can’t believe he’s here, next to him, warm and solid weight mere inches to his left.)

His narrow nose. Light smattering of freckles, peppered kisses by the sun; he wishes to the gods he could do the same. His hair has grown longer, as if teased by the wind. Like ocean waves, Oliver thinks, inhaling the lingering memories of salt-water scent and a freezing, bone-chill evening.

(He wonders if that was when he fell in love, but part of him has always known otherwise. The process had been irreversible, insurmountable, etched in stone, a ticking clock that started the day they met.)

James’ eyelids shiver, briefly, before fluttering open. His eyes are bright and heady in the darkness, a spark in an otherwise pitch-black night; his lashes are long and pale and delicate as a drop of dew on fresh spiderweb silk.

“Hey,” James says, voice but a murmur.

Oliver swallows. “Hey,” he says back, not daring to raise his voice. The air around them has a life of its own, and he dares not shatter its peace. He reaches out, giving in, to grip onto the soft buttery cotton of the other’s shirt. An anchor. He feels as if the room is swaying.

James follows, gently brushing back Oliver’s hair from his temple. His eyes trace his features and it feels like a caress. Oliver imagines he must look horrid: dark circles and exhausted eyes.

_ “You lack the season of all natures,”  _ James says.  _ “Sleep.” _

_ “To sleep; perchance to dream,”  _ Oliver says back softly and smiles, tasting bitterness on his tongue like rancid almonds.  _ “Ay, there’s the rub.” _

James presses his lips together, pursing them in a light pink bow. “I wouldn’t have actually left you,” he says. “Not ever.”

Oliver doesn’t respond. There’s something suspiciously tight in his throat, and he fears if he tries to speak that it will come tumbling out.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” James says. His hand slips to Oliver’s face, where it cups his cheek like a brand, a promise. “Forgive me. Please.”

Oliver watches his own fingers tighten their hold on James’ shirt; fabric crumpling beneath his touch. There is a horrible twisting feeling in his gut, and he thinks it’s hope. When he speaks, his voice is but a breeze. “How can I be sure you won’t leave again?” 

“I won’t,” James say. The mattress hums as he shifts closer, his outline distinct in the dark. There is a crack between the curtains and the window where moonlight spills in silver puddles on the bed. Oliver studies the silhouette it casts upon the wall, and considers that he had never seen a profile as beautiful as James.

“I promise,” James says. The air picks up the words and cradles it like a newborn child; with love, with tenderness. 

James brings himself closer, and kisses the very tip of Oliver’s nose—a drop of fresh-fallen rain, sweet in its adolescence.

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I promise. Sleep, my dear,” he says.

Oliver shuts his eyes to stop the warm, warning flood of salt sting in his sinuses, the ache in his chest. “Okay,” he says. “Good night, James.”

“Good night, Oliver,” James says. Oliver feels another kiss on the apple of his cheek. He doesn’t let go of James’ shirt. The blankets around them are soft and flickering like warm embers in the wind.


End file.
